


Morning at the Graveside

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cemetery, Established Relationship, F/F, Meeting the Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 12:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11943813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Christine takes her lover to her father's grave.





	Morning at the Graveside

It was only the third time Carlotta had woken up with Christine Daae in her bed. Though they had been lovers for some time now, they rarely met at each other’s houses, the opera house being a more convenient setting for such liaisons. Of course, as a result nearly everyone at the Opera Populaire knew about their affair, but ah well. Rumors about actors and actresses getting together were never as scandalous as actresses involving themselves with members of the upper class. While it was rare for two divas of their quality to be together, it was not enough of a scandal to cause Carlotta worry at least—she had been party to far worse scandals in her time.

Today was one of the few days neither Christine nor Carlotta had rehearsal or a performance, a religious holiday. Carlotta intended to take advantage of it. Stretching out an arm, she nudged Christine.

Christine woke as she always did, eyes popping open, the transition sudden and almost violent. She stared at the ceiling briefly before abruptly sitting up. “I didn’t mean to spend the whole night.”

The other reason Christine rarely spent the night in Carlotta’s room was that she was still shy, somehow, despite having spent years now not only as a minor opera girl but as a prima donna. Carlotta could not fathom it, though she admittedly found it attractive.

“I am glad you stayed,” she said. “We can get ourselves some coffee and food now, if you want. Or, if you would like to stay abed…” She smiled lazily, propping herself up as well and letting the blankets fall off. Although it was mid-winter, she still wore the nicest nightgown suitable for the weather, lace emphasizing her breasts. Her various lovers had taught her that there was no excuse for being unpresentable, no matter the situation. Even in sleep you had to look your best, for the side that you showed your lover could not be less than that which you showed the public; if anything it ought to be better, for your lover was the one person you really wanted to impress.

But Christine wasn’t even looking at Carlotta. She had already gotten out of bed and picked up her dress. Last night she had left it draped over a chair, neatening it even as Carlotta urged her to hurry. She was hatefully precise.

“I should go,” she said.

“We should go,” Carlotta corrected her. “We should enjoy a day on the town, really. I so rarely get you all to myself. I hear there is a new show at the museum. You said lately you have nothing to talk about with your patrons—this show, I’m sure, would provide material for at least a month.”

“It does sound nice. But I…there is something I must do.”

“Really? And what is that? I’m sure it must be very important.”

Halfway through changing, Christine paused and looked over at Carlotta. Her pose was awkward, head barely poking out of the collar of her dress and arms pinioned at her sides, not yet pulled through the sleeves. She raised her eyebrows. “Are you being jealous, Carlotta?”

“I am not jealous,” Carlotta huffed. She scrambled out of bed herself. “There are people I should meet with too. I have been neglecting my patrons for you lately—not that you should concern yourself with that, my dear. I’m sure one of them would be glad to escort me to the show. Or perhaps out for tea. You can’t imagine how many invitations I have had to turn down of late.”

Christine, who had now gotten her sleeves on straight, touched Carlotta’s arm. “I would love to spend my day with you, Carlotta. But it is a holy day. I was going to visit my father’s grave.”

“…Oh.”

Everyone knew that Christine was devoted to her dead father. Of course she regularly visited the cemetery, for a start. Those night visits were yet another reason she rarely slept through the night with Carlotta. She also often said that her father had formed her love of music, and sometimes cryptically said that he had sent her the Angel of Music after his death, which was more superstition than Carlotta was used to from her but still another sign of filial piety.

Of course visiting her father’s grave would take precedence over a museum trip. Carlotta felt embarrassed now for having even suggested it. And she could not protest Christine going on this sort of errand, although she still somewhat resented it.

Christine said, “If you like, you could come with me?”

Carlotta blinked. “Pardon?”

“Well, if you want to. Father rarely gets other visitors.” Christine shrugged. “Help me with these buttons?”

Carlotta did so. She processed the request slowly. She wasn’t the kind of woman most people wanted to take to a cemetery, or even to introduce to their living family. Most of her lovers would have considered it crude. They’d grope and fuck her in public—in side rooms of bars where the doors never really shut, backstage or behind the set—but bring her fully clothed to a place of solemnity? Unthinkable. Opera denizens knew their place.

Then again, Christine was an opera girl too.

“I’d like to meet your father. He has a good daughter.”

Christine blushed. “Then you must get dressed, and we must have some breakfast. And wear your thickest coat—it looks like it’s going to be frigid.”

* * *

 

The cemetery was a quiet place. Carlotta did not go there often. Once, a couple months ago after the death of Joseph Buquet. And before that a few years ago when one of their ballerinas caught the pox. She went to the ceremonies and stayed in the background, dressed all in black. And though she had tried to focus on the service, still her mind had strayed—she hadn’t known the ballerina well, and she’d barely known Buquet at all. She hadn’t liked him much, though she knew he’d been popular with the younger girls. Afterwards she had felt bad for being unable to empathize with their grief.

Today she was dressed in her going-out coat, navy and gray, which Christine had told her would do. M. Daae had died long ago, and you no longer had to be completely reverent in his presence. They were quiet nonetheless as they approached the Daae family plot, and respectful, but at least she wasn’t expected to be full of fresh sadness, on the verge of tears. Christine, even, seemed nervous and nostalgic but not exactly mournful, not ready to break down weeping.

They knelt in front of the plot, where snow had been swept away from the cobblestones. Christine bowed her head for a long moment in prayer, and Carlotta tried to think of something to say herself. She believed in an afterlife, more or less, but it had been a long time since she prayed. And while M. Daae had doubtless been a good man he was certainly no canonized saint…well, she would say nothing like that to Christine, but…and she had never known him or even met him in passing. What would she say to such a man? _“Monsieur, I hear you were a brilliant musician.”_ She knew little else about him, after all.

Christine tapped her shoulder and she looked up.

Looking at her father’s stone, Christine said, “Father, this is Carlotta Giudicelli. She is the prima donna at the opera house.” Smiling faintly, she said, “I have grown rather fond of her.”

Carlotta expected Christine to say they were lovers, but she did not. Perhaps that was not something one said to the dead—or to one’s parents, at least.

“She is an excellent singer. I would say the Angel of Music has visited her too, but it is not so. She works hard for her skill, and is greatly loved at the opera house.” Christine wet her lips. “I would hope that you would love her too.”

Carlotta waited for her to continue, but Christine looked at her instead. Was she expected to say something? What was she expected to say?

She cleared her throat. “Good evening, Monsieur Daae. I hope that you are doing well.” Oh God. He was dead. How could he be doing well? Those in heaven did well, no doubt, but in that case it was useless to hope…Christine was looking at her and she had already paused for too long. Dear Lord. “I love your daughter. She is a good woman, and a very good singer. You should be proud of her.” She bowed her head slightly. “I hope that you approve of our friendship and smile kindly on her. Thank you for bringing up such a wonderful daughter.”

Christine seemed satisfied now, and returned to her quiet prayer, leaving Carlotta to her thoughts.

She stared at the stone. Had Daae heard her? Maybe, maybe not. The wind sent a shiver through her. If he had lived he would still be a famous musician, and Carlotta would truly need his approval to be with his daughter, or perhaps Christine would hide her away and keep their relationship secret. It didn’t matter now. He was dead. He could do nothing to threaten her. Famous musician to bones and dirt. Memento mori.

Again, Carlotta shivered.

At last Christine got up, and Carlotta rose more slowly. She wondered if she was supposed to give a final bow or genuflection to the grave but of course it was no tabernacle. And Christine had already turned and was walking away.

Carlotta followed, her pace warming into a brisk stride. At the door she was the one to close the gate, and she slid the latch down firmly.

Part of her still wanted to ask Christine to the museum exhibit. The mood between them was very somber now, of course, but it was nothing a little warm coffee or music couldn’t rectify, and though she knew she should be solemn the coldness of the cemetery had her longing for golden walls and beautiful paintings. Things that shone and lasted and did not rot or fade.

“You said you loved me.”

Christine’s voice was unexpected, and Carlotta glanced at her sharply.

Christine flushed. “When you spoke to my father, you said…”

“I know what I said.” She hadn’t said it before, that was the problem—and hadn’t meant to say it at all. The atmosphere had carried her away from her senses. “What does it matter?”

Christine smiled a little. She didn’t respond. Instead, she took Carlotta’s hand in hers. “Shall we stop at a café?”

“I think that would be agreeable.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I come up with Phantom fic ideas by taking a ship and going through the musical song by song, imagining how the ship would interact with each song. For this one, I was wondering how Carlotta/Christine would interact with the themes of "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again." That's not quite what this fic is. But it's something like that.  
> Let me know your thoughts in the comments, or check me out on tumblr at convenientalias.


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